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found, as Captain Cochrane had found before, that, under the system of corporal chastisement, the people had become, so degraded as hardly to appreciate, at least within the limits of a traveller's patience, the force of any other motive." After a twenty days' voyage up the stream, Sir George Simpson found carriages waiting for him at a place bearing the musical name of Figololfskaya, whence he travelled to Irkutsk, over the Bratsky steppe along a "whirling, jolting, thumping road." This city, though presenting signs of magnificence and wealth, and having a population of 20,000, gave, nevertheless, proofs of decay; the wide streets being almost deserted, and many of the houses tumbling into ruins." Want of space prevents us from following the governor to Lake Baikal, to which vast inland sea he made a visit before leaving Irkutsk, and for the same reason, we can but irlanec at his journey of 4,000 miles, from Irkutsk to St. Petcrsburgh. He was now accompanied by an officer of police, to secure all necessaries for the journey, and therefore dashed along to Tomsk, a flourishing town on the Tom, having a population of about 20,000. Thence he crossed the vast Barabinsky steppe with the utmost speed, fearful of being caught, like Napoleon, by the winter. So rapidly did he advance, and so readily were horses provided at the post-houses, that ho was amazed at the unusual alacrity of the people. "The secret soon oozed out; our friends ahead, as much, perhaps, for their own convenience as for our glory, had insinuated that 1 was an ambassador from the Emperor of China to the Czar; while tho simple peasants, according to the natural growth of all marvellous stories, had, of their own accord, pronounced me to be the brother of the sun and moon himself, pushing on to the capital with my interpreter and mandarins, in order to implore tho assistance of the Russians against the English. Private accommodations were prepared for us at every station, and we were decidedly the greatest men that had ever been seen to the east of the Uralian mountains. As the roads were excellent, wc enjoyed the joke, whirling at the rate of twelve or fifteen versts an hour."

With such heltcr skelter driving, the whole party reached Tobolsk in nineteen days from leaving Irkutsk. The author here takes a review of the history of Russia in Asia, the deeds of the Cossacks, the trade with China, and the gold mines of Siberia, which are the richest in the world. But, for all these digressions, we must, unwillingly, refer our readers to the book itself.

Moscow and St. Petersburgh, through which his journey now lay, are too well known to need remark here; it is only necessary to say, that Sir George Simpson reached England in safety, having performed his voyage round the world in nineteen months and twenty-six days.

Such travels undertaken by judicious and influential men, like Sir George Simpson, would soon open channels for that intercourse of nation with nation, which would, in the end, unite the world in one great family, and promoto the civilisation of all people.

W. D.

HENRI DE NEMOURS;

OB,
FRATERNAL AFFECTION.

The French people having in 1789 taken possession of the Bastile, that ancient state prison, where so many political crimes had been committed, where such fearful vengeance had been summarily and secretly executed, the whole edifice was ransacked, and totally destroyed. On that occasion, a great iron cage was found, which proved to be that in which the Cardinal de Baltie, minister of Louis XL, had expiated for eleven years the atrocious guilt of being the inventor, but for other victims, of the instrument which thus served for his own punishment. In another dungeon was discovered a second iron cage, smaller, in the shape of a bowl, wide at

top, and terminating at the bottom in a point to torrow, that any one shnt up in it could neither -it nor Is nor stand upright. The last mentioned age was the only one now remaining, of two, which had served, three centuries before, as the prison of two young prima, Henri and Francois dc Nemours, sons of Jaeqred'Armagnac, who in the reign of Louis XL was Cc* stable of France. It is well known to any who km read French History, that d'Armagnac had leagued »ni the Dukes of Burgundy and Brittany (Bretagw v deliver up France to the English. This plot,iiaa would have snatched the sceptre from the hands of ikt French monarch, was discovered to Louis when Jk ripe for execution, and Jacques d'Armagnac wis * stantly arrested, and sentenced to be beheaded. He hi two sons so young at the time of his treason tad .j punishment, that when these poor children were asiri if they had not been the accomplices of their father, they might have answered with the lamb in the fabk: "How could I, when I was not bom T Nevertheless, t* a refinement of cruelty, which even the barbarism of ike age cannot palliate, much less justify, Louis XI. oftae1 white robes to be put on the two boys, and this attired. they were placed under the scaffold on which tkai father was standing, and when he received the fib! blow, the executioner sprinkled the white robes u»i their innocent heads with the blood of the crimini. Nor was the vengeance of Louis satiated by the pmu>t ment of the Constable. The two orhpaus, dyed in i father's blood, were taken to the Bastile, dragged to tkt subterranean dungeons, and there put into the two in* cages described before. Henri de Nemours was tte eight years old, and his brother Francois very ntub seven.

The unhappy children, thus condemned to eoatniul torture, had no other consolation but puttiar their hands through the bars of the cages to grasp each trot of the other. And all day long, and all night loaj it! young brothers were hand in hand.

Francois, the younger of the two, was the most lie*ponding. "I am so much hurt here," said he,"s«re!j we cannot live loug this way." And he wept.

"Come, come," replied Henri, " a pretty fellow to err at your age; besides you know papa never liked thai we should cry. You see they are treating us like Em of whom they are afraid, so we must not behave lit? children. Instead of crying, let us talk of poor ias mamma."

And then the poor victims of the cruel poficr«f Louis XI. talked of days gone by, and of the beast ful domain of Loctour, where they had passed the firs years of infancy. Once again did they climb their on hills of Armagnac, once more wander in its tbi.i woods, once more run races in the broad walks of it." baronial park. But alas ! it was only in imasrinaticeyet the young prisoners found a momentary oblivion *' their sufferings in that blessed magic of memory watek makes the present cease to exist for us, by brinric? *• back into the past.

One other slight alleviation to their wretched** was afforded to these infant martyrs by a very lir:t mouse, which, having crept out of its hole one day, we* first so terrified by the sight of the young princes. 'J* it ran back as fast as possible to its hiding-place.'' vain did the children try to coax it; it was not till * next day that, pressed by hunger, she ventured •*» pick up some of the crumbs which they had pnrpo*' let fall from the cages. By degrees, however, she bea* accustomed to the voices of the children, and a few iijafter her first appearance, she grew so tame, thai it climbed up to the cages of her patrons, and at lre?>used to go from one to the other, and eat out of tto hands.

But it was a small thing to the vindictive Louis tb! the blood of d'Armagnac had stained the fair hair ad white robe of his children. He heard that the two little prisoners of the Bastile were enduring *eir sufferings with fortitude, that, through custom's wondrous power they had learned to sleep soundly in their iron cage, nay, even to awake with an almost cheerful " good morrow" on their lips. He heard it—can any heart that responds to one human feeling believe that it but impelled him to devise fresh torture for them 1 He issued orders that a tooth should be extracted every week from each of the children.

WTien the person appointed to this office, a man too long accustomed, as the minister of the king's savage cruelty, to the sight of suffering, to shrink from inflicting it, was introduced into the dungeon, he could not suppress an exclamation of pity at the spectacle of the two unhappy, yet patient little creatures. He was, however, obliged to tell the object of his visit, and when the brutal order of the king was announced, the little Francois uttered piercing cries, and Henri endeavoured to plead with the executioner. "Mamma," said he, "would die of grief if she heard of my little brother suffering so much. Oh ! pray, Sir, spare him— I entreat of you not to put him to such pain; you see how weak and ill he is already."

The executioner of the king's cruel purpose could no longer restrain his tears. "There is no alternative," he said, but he sobbed as he spoke, "I must obey; I risk my life even by delay. My orders are to hand the two teeth to the governor of the Bastile, in order that he may lay them before the king."

"In that case," said Henri, "you must only take two from me. I am strong and can bear it, but the least additional suffering would kill my brother."

And now a long and touching contest arose between the children as to which should suffer for the other. Surprised and affected, the man hesitated for a few moments, and might, perhaps, have finally yielded to the dictates of pity, and have shrunk from executing his revolting office, had not a messenger come from the governor to inquire the cause of his dilatoriness. The messenger knew that longer delay would be regarded as a crime—he approached Henri and extracted a tooth: the child repressed every expression of pain, and seeing the man moving towards his brother's cage, he cried, "Stay, you are to take another from me—you know I an to pay for us both." And the heroic child obtained his wish, and his self sacrifice gave to the governor of the Bastile the two teeth he was required to lay before the king.

The cruel order was executed in its utmost rigour; every week the minister of his barbarous will repaired to the dungeon, and every week Henri paid his own tax and that of bis brother. But the strength of the noble boy was at last exhausted; a violent fever raged in his young veins; he gradually grew weaker, and his legs being unable to support him he was obliged to kneel in the cage. At length a day came when he felt that he had only a few minutes to live, and making a feeble effort to extend his hand once more to his brother, he said, "All is over, Francois, I shall never sec mamma again, but, perhaps, you may yet be taken out of this horrible place. Tell my darling mother that I often *poke of her, and that I never loved her so much as now that I am dying. Farewell, Francois," gasped he, as his breath failed him, "you will give our poor little *hite mouse her crumbs every day. I depend upon you to take care of her; will you not, dear Francois?"

H« heard not the answer of his brother, death snatched him from his sufferings, and he passed into that place 'where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest." It may be presumed that Louis was softened in favour of the last of the Nemours, for, after the death of Henri, Francois was released from his iron eage and transferred to one of the ordinary dungeons.

At length the soul of the cruel monarch was required TM him, and the reign of Charles VIII. began. His first act was to set at liberty all the victims of the suspicious and hateful policy of Louis XI. Among the rest, Francois de Nemours was released, permitted once

more to behold the sun, once more to lay his drooping head on the bosom of his mother; but the tortures he had undergone in the horrible cage left him all his life lame and deformed.

AN INCIDENT AT SEA.

For the first few days our voyage was remarkably prosperous; our ship, the barque Robert, of some 300 tons, was well found; her captain, an experienced hand, had been in the West Indian trade for upwards of twenty years, and the crew were as fine a set of men as could be desired: all hardy and thoroughgoing seamen. It was towards the end of February, and the weather had been for some days dry and open, with the wind at due east. We had a famous run down the channel, and were well clear of the Bay of Biscay on the fifth day, fully calculating to make Madeira on the twelfth.

However, the rapid falling of the glass, and certain atmospherical indications, led us soon to expect a change in these prospects, nor was it long before it was realized. Every thing had been done, in anticipation, to make the ship snug, by lowering our lighter spars, reducing the sails, and by shaping our course so as to have an abundance of sea room, so that, in fact, we were well prepared for the worst. The wind had entirely dropped, and the sails flapped heavily against the masts, as the ship rolled and pitched under the influence of a long and uneasy ground swell; the sun set angrily, and a low moaning sound, as of wind, created a feeling of discomfort, which was not allayed by an observation of the captain, that we should '* catch it before morning."

I had retired to my berth, but I could not sleep, not so much from positive apprehension as from that fever of doubt which is more distressing. I'soon felt that the captain's prognostication was about to be realized; the whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded like funeral wailings; the creaking of the masts, the straining and groaning of the bulk-heads, as the ship laboured in the weltering sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing along the side of the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if death were raging round the floating prison, seeking for his prey; the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him entrance. Suddenly I was alarmed by the loud cry of the watch, "A sail ahead!" I was on deck in a moment, and saw distinctly a small schooner close a-head of us, with her broadside towards us; escape was hopeless,— we struck her just a mid-ships. The force, the size, and weight of our vessel bore her down below the waves; we passed over her, and were hurried on our course. As the cracking wreck was sinking beneath us. I had a glimpse of two or three wretched-looking beings, who, with frantic gestures for help, and shriek of terror, were swallowed by the waves. I heard their drowning cry mingling with the wind, as the blast that bore it to my ear swept us out of all further hearing. I shall never forget that cry! It was some time before we could put the ship about, she was under such head-way. We returned, as nearly as we could guess, to the place where the schooner had gone down; we cruised about for some time, and fired several guns, listening through the gale if we might hear the halloo of some survivor, but all was silent; we never saw nor heard any thing more of them.

The storm increased with the night. The sea was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves and broken surges. Deep called unto deep. At times the black volumes of cloud over head seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning, fthat quivered along the foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunder boomed and bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed and prolonged by the mountain wave. As I saw the ship staggering and plunging among those roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards I would dip into the water; her bow was almost buried beneath the waTes. Sometimes an impending surge; appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from the shock.

Morning at length broke, but the gale was unabated, and, with the exception of a mere storm stay-sail, we were sendding under bare poles. Heavy, leaden clouds hung like a dome over ns, while a lighter fleecy scud wag borne, as if on wings, beneath them. The aspect without was not cheering, and within it presented nothing but discomfort; the dead lights had been shipped, making the cabin, wet and slimy from the seas we had shipped, still more cheerless. For three days did this state of things continue, and we were driven helplessly along, our bulwarks stove in, our boats dashed to pieces, and leaving mere fragments hanging to the davits; the caboose gone, and the decks completely cleared. On the morning of the fourth day the weather moderated slightly, and the captain ventured to get a trysail set,1 but we were oct-asionally struck by" some frightful seas, and many a time were the men saved by a life line.

I was, however, less fortunate, for a mountain wave striking us abaft the midships, knocked down the man at the wheel and carried me overboard with resistless force. Fortunately, I was immediately missed, and as I rose on the top of a sea, on which I was labouring, after having recovered from the first plunge, I was caught sight of. My shoes were soon kieked off, but my jacket, clinging to me from the wet it had imbibed, resisted all my efforts to strip it off. I felt that my chance was a small one, though not hopeless, for I had ingratiated myself with the men, and the captain was a fellow-townsman, and, therefore, I was persuaded that they would use every effort to save me; but, at the same time, I fearedthat they might not dare to wear the ship amidst so much danger. A moment's reflection convinced mc that it would be useless to fatigue myself by swimming, and that my only chance lay in husbanding my power, by keeping myself collected, and by floating with the least possible exertion. I was soon far, far astern, anxiously watching the receding ship, when, borne to the crest of a giant wave, I caught a momentary glimpse of her; and 1 must confess, that when 1 was carried down again into the deep trough of the waves, I was assailed with the most painful qualms as to the possibility of succour being afforded to me in such a sea. Minutes seemed lengthened into interminable hours, but still 1 floated on, sometimes "carried up to heaven, and down again to the deep: my soul melting away because of the trouble." The sight of the ship always cheered me, and I waited anxiously for the wave that would bear me up and bring her within view, as it dispelled for the instant the dreadful feeling of desolation which oppressed mc as I lay in the hollow seas. These snatches of her were so momentary that I could form no idea whether any change had taken place in her position, yet once I thought I saw her broadside to me, and my heart bounded with delight; I hugged the idea, although the next glance at her did not bear out my hopes. Yes! it was no mistake; the distance between us was lessening, and they had succeeded in wearing the ship. But fresh doubts grew upon me; our positions were altered by the course she was forced to take to bear down upon me, and as I was sure that they could not have seen me for some time, they could neither tell where I was, nor whether I survived; and then I thought they might miss mc, and I knew my voice could not be heard; and then I began to calculate as to the utility of further exertion on my own part, and how much longer I could keep myself afloat. The look out was, however, most vigilant, and a couple of men had stationed themselves in the fore-top to gain a wider field, and by them I was discovered. The course of the ship was shaped to me, and as she passed within a few yards,

a plank with a line attached to it was thrown overboari I soon reached it; and, clinging with difficulty to it is it pitched and rolled, I succeeded in making the U>> fast beneath my shoulders. A' lond shout from the shif proclaimed the delight of the crew, who began htnHnr me towards them with a good will that left me little,; complain of beyond the stifling sensation of beia: dragged rapidly through the water, and the pain of the rope across my chest. Luckily they understood Bj signal, as the two latter causes prevented my spejlir. and hauled me in over the stern, for in their zeal ii<; would have pulled me up the side of the ship, azihs which, as she rolled and surged, I must infallibly hare been killed. The congratulations of all the hands **a most sincere; they refused all rewards, and would Kcept nothing but my thanks; they said they had r>.: me up, being certain that no man could have kept hisself afloat amidst such heavy seas for the hour and i L. I had been exposed to them. We had a class of gre: all round; and, after I had changed my clothes isJ spent a short time in my cabin, I could have fancied the whole had been a dream, but for a painful aricSE? across the chest, which lasted for some days. In a nek we were at Madeira, where we refitted before** preceded on our voyage to the West Indies. E. P. I.

$oetnj.

In Original Poetry, the Name, real or assumed, of tat Aofber. ^ printed in Small Capitals under the title; in Selects**..'■ printed in Italics at the end.

THE SUMMER IS OVER.

r* * * * * *]

The Summer is over,

Too soon it is sped,

Its joys scarce returning

Before they are tied.

The leaves that once shaded

Our pathway, are o'er,

Ami the tlower that is faded

Will blossom no more.

Cut past joys in remembrance

Still dwell in the heart,

Like the scent of sweet flowers,

They do not depart;

And the Robin is .singing .

Still on the hare bough,

A glad message bringing

Of joy even now.

Though the lost sun no longer

Shines through the long day,

Aud the leaves and the flowers

Are faded away:

Though the warm winds of even

No longer blow soft,

And the bright stars of heaven

Look cold from aloft:

Still, still in the bosom

Shall joy find a home.

And the heart shall look forward

To pleasures to come,

And the soul shall still cherish

Glad hopes of the Spring,

When the dowers shall all flourish

The birds shall all sing.

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A JOURNAL OF ENTERTAINMENT AND INSTRUCTION
FOE GENERAL READING.

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THE MEANING OF UNDINE.

"the meaning of I'ndine!" We fancy we can see the air of scornful disgust wherewith some readers will close the book when thii obnoxious title meets th«ir eyes. It is strange with what a natural antipathy to the allegorical some persons are born; it is unto them as "a gaping pig, or a harmless, necessary cat;" they scent it at the distance of miles, and close their doors hastily, lest their thresholds should be polluted by its passage. They resist its interpretations as a species of torture, a peine forte et dure inflicted upon helpless authors by inquisitorial critics, constraining them at length, however innocent, to confess themselves guilty of the meaning imputed to them. And truly, when we recall the afflicting exercises of senseless ingenuity which have annoyed this country under the name of allegory and allegorical interpretation, we cannot be greatly surprised at the horror of a reader of ordinary humanity when he encounters the word. We are a people whose nature it is to speak plainly; we deal not in hidden meanings; symbolism in its higher grades and finer texture is a mystery we caro not to penetrate. Our literature, when it does venture to commit an allegory, generally works it out in a practical, businesslike manner, regularly personifying a certain number of qualities good and bad, carrying them steadily through an appropriate series of evolutions, and setting them finally, with an unobjectionable moral, to live "happy ever afterwards,'' or miserable, as the case may be. The allegorical moaning, and the story which thinly veils it, are thus kept comfortably distinct, and the reader may occupy himself with either, as the humour takes him, without being obtrusively annoyed by the other. Thus, since the genius of our land seldom assumes the garb, or, assuming it, wears it not easily, it has come under the treatment of a lower class of minds, and fallen into disgrace among us. The inquisitive critic who hunts for a meaning and a message in the poetry of the day (in truth often a hopeless search !) is reckoned, perhaps not unfairly, with the gossip of daily life, who spends his time in attributing motives to bis neighbours which it never entered their heads to conceive,—and the judicious reader turns from his "fantastic tricks" with contempt, and never admitting the idea that the absurdities of the monkey counterfeit the dignity of the man, which is, when it can be found, a real, genuine dignity, takes to himself 'the'common and most attainable comfort of looking down upon that which ho cannot understand. Ho (targets that the heaven which seems to him to lie beneath bis feet, is as much heaven—impenetrable, unattainable, incomprehensible heaven—a.s that which stretches visibly above his head. Noonday we can understand; and there is no mistake about the darkness of midnight; but for the palo, shadow haunted twilight, where the seen is for ever passing into the unseen, where the distance is thronged with phantoms, and the air voluble with sounds that arc as the voice of a spirit, speaking to us in no articulate language, yet awakening thoughts by every note of its low music, we have neither eyes nor ears; yet in this strange cloud-land do the Germans live, move, and have their being. We say not that in this they arc better off' than ourselves; we pronounce no sentence whatever upon the matter; but admitting the fact, (and we believe that, whether in scorn or In love, the fact will generally be admitted.) we ask the candid reader whether there be any hope of his forming a just estimate of the scenery of the spiritual region, if he persists in denying that such a region exists! whether, in short, it is a fair mode of proceeding, to make up your mind in your closet that the Germans shall speak English, and then go out into the street and quarrel with the first Dcutschbnder you meet because he accosts you with a polite "Gnten morgen?'

For, let us consider a little. Who, and what, is {his

Fououe, whose writings are now so widely rod, so I generally admired, and (we beg the public's pardon)« little understood among as? W«a he a man who looked only at the outsides of things! receiving them in tie:: external bearings into his mind, and reproducing tkm in like manner in his art! sometimes hitting l;«: dent upon a truth, resident in the eternal form, ant!. indeed, inalienable from it; but scarcely perceived, ud ( by no means appreciated by him ? Or was he not ntkr in very deed a poet,—that is to say, (be the v«t: received as it is spoken, in reverence !) in some seEre^ priest of the Invisible ;—a man on whose soul a <hzi. has been laid, in whose heart a word has been spei^ and who must needs acquit himself of that charge. Jk give utterance to that message as he best could, at ill hazards? For this is the true definition of the poelthough few, very few, attain, or even approach to ms.tery over their mysterious gift. For the most part ttej labour and tremble beneath the burthen; speaking, half unconsciously, words which they scarcely appsebend themselves; troubled, dubious, wondering; ofia absolutely powerless in practice, needing help, grain'*. and counsel at every moment; but enabled by t m*: inexplicable law to shed that light on others wfekk their own darkened and wandering steps need, aoc cannot find, and grateful with a gratitude whfel a-: eloquence can express to those stronger mini« whom they are sometimes permitted to lean foriliri while, and by whose aid they are enabled to give k<i. to the vague and vivid ideas which are for ever dotfc before them! Not of this stamp, however, was ?omp-*. He had attained to that higher elevation at vl, clouds and vapours are a spectacle beneath the feet, J;' not a difficulty in the path. He had, or believedtfav. he had, The Truth within him,—distinct, tangiWc, imperative. How could he choose but give voire to r Yet. not as a preacher, observe;—the difference is n"-and important. His vocation was to teach trath'? means of beauty; not dogmatically, and As it is 2 itself. That beauty became his art, and the verje!. ment of his life; but while sporting in it *i* I-' buoyancy of a child,—while studying the pielm*: and wooing the graceful with his whole heart,—tkw all l>ecainc to him, and must become to us, if ■»•:To understand him rightly, symbolical; — and wre": ever converting themselves, sometimes, perhar*. f to his own surprise, into vehicles for the message ri. t it was given him to utter. It was not that, lite '' mon nlhjgory-manufaetureni, he wanted to te»ir particular doctrine, and set himself to make anal!*" to fit it; but that his soul ww thrilling and qnitiTM; with intense convictions, and that the romaiff. s fairy tale, the chivalrous adventure, beautiful * :-: were in thonrselves, and complete and inilepoik: were but as shadows and garments of the snbtaity Truth. If this view of him be correct, two cowb->: must at once he admitted. First, that it *"'* absurd to expect to Xrnd in "Undine" a kind of" f grim's Progress," where every particle has i;s island unmistakcablc office, right or wrong, in the » "* ing out of the intention of the writer; secondly tH would be equally absurd (and this is speaking »&. to consider it as a mere fairy-tale, valuable onljfc exquisite originality, and the ethereal beat::; •' conceptions,—destitute of deeper meaning, and ataim. This would be simply impossible to sach»** as we have attempted to describe Fouqufc. *J** therefore, distorting or desecrating this level!'* fictions, we may allowably look for a living awl"'1 mate the movements of its matchless form. *'y. expect to find that its general outline is sltjh*^ and in many of its minuter touches we may !>"•'' discover a significance, real and not to be disputed."; . appreciable only by the loving student. Ami it s*, to the loving student that these pages are iddre*~ Him we fearlessly invite to endeavour with us*'"1 ''-'■[ his heart in accordance with the heart of the S1*

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